


Reasonable Risk

by Minuial_Nuwing



Series: Legacy Universe [6]
Category: Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works
Genre: Brotherhood, Ficlet, Gen, Third Age, Twins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-01-14
Updated: 2008-01-14
Packaged: 2017-11-09 09:59:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/454211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Minuial_Nuwing/pseuds/Minuial_Nuwing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The aftermath of a battle.</p><p>(Written for the LJ 50passages challenge, prompt: <i>That is a very interesting remark. I may have to report that.</i>)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reasonable Risk

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: References to violence, disturbing images
> 
> *******************

_~Misty Mountains, 2931 III~_

Elladan had never seen so much blood. 

Not at the edge of the isolated battlefields, where his skill was often all that stood between the wounded and Námo’s call. Not in the healing wing of Imladris, where he worked at his father’s side, caring for laboring mothers and accident-prone elflings with the same calm compassion he showed the gravely ill warriors who filled most of Elrond’s hall.

The scarlet flood from Elrohir’s mangled arm seemed unending, the warm, sticky smell of it overwhelming, so strong that Elladan could taste the coppery tang of his brother’s blood even over the stink of the orc carcasses. 

He had watched in impotent horror as the curved blade descended, too far away to aid his twin, his sharp cry of warning drowned out by the howls of the nearly routed orcs. Watched as the ragged, filthy steel cut deep into Elrohir’s forearm, tearing muscle and breaking bone, leaving the elf-knight’s sword hand useless, all but severed - swinging like some macabre puppet in an elfling’s folly.

Now he watched helplessly as Elrohir’s blood poured onto the rocky ground, gleaming a brilliant, obscene red in the dying light.

_“Elladan!”_

A sharp shake and the call of his name drew the elder twin out of his stupor to meet Arathorn’s understanding gaze. 

“I must have your help, my friend,” the ranger said firmly, his bloodied hands wrapping tightly around Elrohir’s upper arm. “The bleeding must be stopped and the arm splinted before we can move him.” He glanced at Elrohir’s pale, sweat-streaked face. “And we must move him quickly.”

Elladan nodded wordlessly, pressing a clean cloth to the gruesome wound with trembling fingers. His hands steadied as he worked, and after a few moments he called hoarsely for small branches, using the well-padded wood to splint Elrohir’s tightly bound arm. A few quick slashes of the knife and Elrohir’s leather jerkin became a sturdy sling, holding the injured limb securely to his side.

Elrohir’s breath hitched ominously, and Elladan leaned over to press his forehead to his brother’s clammy brow.

 _Do not leave me, tôren._

There was no answer, save a faint pulse of warmth, and Elladan was seized by a fresh wave of panic.

“We must make a litter,” Arathorn began, “so we can-”

Elladan cut him off summarily. “No time,” he said curtly, rising and calling for his horse in one swift motion. The elder twin spoke softly to the restless animal, then mounted and held out his arms. “I will take him.”

The ranger shook his head. “Be reasonable, Elladan,” he urged. “You are tired and battle sore, as well. We can be ready to move within the hour.”

“You will be ready too late and move too slow,” Elladan objected, his eyes narrowing slightly. “I can make the valley by morning.”

“And the ride will be the death of you both,” Arathorn retorted. “You are not thinking.”

Elladan’s voice took on a hard edge, a muscle in one cheek twitching visibly as his hand strayed to the hilt of his still-bloodied sword. _“I will take him.”_

Two stubborn grey gazes locked, one ageless, silver as twilight, the other storm-dark and burdened beyond mere years, and the watching rangers marveled that they had never before marked the likeness their chieftain bore to the sons of Elrond. 

Then the moment passed as though it had never been.

“As you wish, my lord,” Arathorn relented, sighing deeply. “May the stars light your path.”

“And yours, my friend,” Elladan replied, his shame at his own behavior dampened by his fear for Elrohir. Urging his horse closer, he held his breath as the elf-knight’s limp form was lifted carefully into his arms and secured snugly to his own body with strips torn from Elrohir’s tattered cloak. Drawing his own wrap around his brother, Elladan set off at a full gallop without a backward glance.

“It is a foolhardy gamble,” one of the onlookers commented, “riding in such a fashion on these paths in the dark. Likely two will die when one might have lived.”

“That was never a choice,” Arathorn said cryptically, ignoring the quizzical look the young ranger gave him. “Get back to your duties, boy,” he added, not unkindly. “The morning will come early.”

**********

Elladan’s exhausted mount clattered into the courtyard with the morning’s first light and suddenly, after all the anxious hours alone, there was help aplenty. Willing hands to lower Elrohir to a litter and whisk him away to the healing halls, others to help Elladan from his horse and take his bloodied weapons. Elrond’s quick embrace, a wave of relief that this son, at least, was not badly injured. Concerned voices as Elladan shook off the consoling touches to stagger after his brother’s entourage, only to be stopped in the door of the very room where Elrohir lay. 

“Come with me, ‘Adan.” Glorfindel’s voice was kind, but the hand that gripped Elladan’s shoulder was firm, the bulk that filled the doorway immovable. “Let your father work in peace.”

“No,” Elladan said, struggling against the hold without effect. “I must go to him!”

“In a bit. First you must wash away the stench and have your own wounds seen to, young one.”

Glorfindel caught the fist as easily as if Elladan were still an elfling sparring with his tutor. “All will be well, ‘Adan,” he said soothingly, drawing his distraught charge into a snug embrace. “Come with me.”

A short while later, clean and slightly more composed, the elder twin sat at Elrohir’s bedside, his attention riveted on the pristine bandage that wrapped his brother’s forearm and the snugly fitted mithril rods that held the fractured bone steady.

“You had best wake, and quickly, tôren,” Elladan whispered, covering Elrohir’s hand with his own. “I have threatened Arathorn with bodily harm and ridden Mithrengil to the point of collapse for you.” Tears gleaming in his eyes, he warned, “If you die, ‘Roh, I will come after you and kill you again, myself.”

_That is a very interesting remark. I may have to report that._

The gibe ghosted through his thoughts faintly, and Elladan sat up abruptly. “’Roh?” he said tentatively, afraid he had imagined that which he so wished to hear.

Elrohir’s voice was weak, but the twinkle in his eyes was blessedly familiar. “I said, that is a very interesting remark. I may have to report that,” he teased hoarsely.

And Elladan, to his own horror and Elrohir’s eternal amusement, broke down and cried.

*~*~*~*~*


End file.
